


The Third Wish

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Be Careful What You Wish For, Fantasy elements, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Kidlock, M/M, Minor Character Death, No Eurus Holmes, Not Compliant To Chris Walken's Biography, Teenlock, Wish Fulfillment, Witches, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-02
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-16 00:17:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18680209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: A glimpse at a deep brotherly love over the years that inevitably turns into something more.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The source for the small part of "Sleeping Beauty": https://www.grimmstories.com/language.php?grimm=050&l=en&r=de
> 
> There is no Uncle Rudy in this universe which is a shame but it wouldn't have worked with him as the boys should only have one another.

## Mycroft, 6

“Why, Mummy?” Mycroft insisted a bit impatiently, staring up to his mother with the entire sincerity of his six years.

“Sorry, Mycie, what did you say?” Mrs Holmes put the cooking spoon aside.

Mycroft realised she was looking very tired. And a bit sad. Knowing she wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, he repeated his question. “Why don't we visit Grandma anymore?”

“Oh. Well… She… She's not herself anymore, dear.”

The boy shook his head in confusion. What or who else was she then? He had heard someone talking lately about a man having himself turned into a woman but certainly his mother didn’t mean anything like that? “What's the matter?” he settled for.

Mrs Holmes sighed. “She… Often very old people change. Some of them forget things. Forget all their lives and people they know.”

Mycroft nodded. He had read about that. But she had said it in a way that indicated that this was not her mother's problem. And of course Grandma would still be herself, even if she forgot things. Her real self wouldn’t change if she forgot what she had for breakfast or who this strange woman in the kitchen was.

She took a deep breath. “And others… They become a bit… weird…”

Mycroft shrugged. Having met so many members of the vast families of both his parents, he'd rather have said most of them were pretty weird, old or young. And he only had good memories of his grandmother, which he wouldn’t have said about any eccentric uncle or cousin. Grandma had always been kind but never intrusive. She had not once forced him to kiss her, and Mycroft didn’t kiss anyone! Not if he could avoid it! She had used to bake the best cakes! Delicious biscuits! Her kitchen was huge and it had always been warm and inviting and simply a place to feel good at.

Especially for Mycroft, the boy who was so different from anyone else. His mother was a very intelligent woman who had married a kind-hearted, smart man who came from a family full of eccentric people. And Mycroft, their only son, surpassed them all easily in terms of intelligence. He also was extremely shy towards everybody except for his parents – and his only remaining grandparent. He could feel he was just so unusual, not fitting in anywhere. It wasn't just his brain, far above any child of his age. He was thinking differently, much more complex than most adults. But he was also _feeling_ differently, and among 'normal' people who laughed about silly things and worried about even sillier ones and used illogical expressions all the time, he felt as if he didn’t even belong to their species, his uniqueness sentencing him to a loneliness he supposed would be his steady companion. Which was fine as he already knew that he didn’t like other people quite that much. He had his books and his new puppy, Redbeard, and he wasn't an unhappy child. He felt safe and loved when he was with his parents and he had taken almost as much to his grandmother who always seemed to understand him without words.

He simply wanted to see her again, and perhaps it would even help her. So he looked up to his mother with a stern expression now. “I want to visit Grandma. Today.”

“But she might scare you…”

“I'm not scared of _anything_!” answered the six-year-old with the brain of a forty-year-old and the heart that was much more fragile than he knew with all his intelligence.

And his mother sighed and nodded and he knew he would be allowed to spend some time with the woman who made the best scones in all the world.

*****

“Hush, let's just leave her alone. Come into the kitchen.”

Mycroft glanced at his mother, who had fallen asleep on Grandma's couch right after they had finished drinking tea and eating chocolate cake. She had been looking so tired all day already and she certainly needed some rest. So he nodded and got up and followed his grandmother into her huge, wonderful kitchen. There were little glasses of jam everywhere and all the things she needed for her fantastic cooking and baking.

He had no idea what his mother had been talking about. His grandmother had welcomed them with a wide, warm smile and she had been as sweet and caring as ever.

“Do sit down, my love. I know you've just eaten cake, but I've made some chocolates with ginger- and nut centres. Would you like to try?”

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically and she smiled and provided him with some huge chocolates that looked like artworks and tasted deliciously. “That's the best I've ever eaten!” he seriously told her and she tousled his fine black hair with a smile.

“I'm so happy you like them, my sweet boy. I wish you could be here more often.”

Mycroft nodded again but this time his face was sad. “I wish that too. Mummy…” He broke off, not wanting to talk bad about his mother.

But his grandmother patted his hand. “I know, darling. She's a bit afraid of me now that I've discovered that I'm a witch.”

Mycroft stared at her with his eyes open. “A witch?! You? Like in the fairy tales?” Of course he didn't read them anymore but when he'd been younger, they had been the first books he had got and he had found them quite entertaining albeit not exactly believable, but of course that wasn't what they were there for anyway. Now he used to read books about history and science and famous kings but he had not forgotten anything of the fairy tales.

But it couldn’t be of course! Even if witches really existed - his grandmother had wrinkles but she didn’t have warts and there were no black cats in her house, just her old dachshund Riddles. He was well aware people had invented these stories and put their imagination into it but there would be some true core in them. There might be no real witches but there had been and probably still were women who believed they were capable of dark magic and were behaving accordingly.

“Not quite, my dear. I'm a white witch, a good one. I can make people happier with my spells. So my darling – what if you had three wishes? What would you wish for?”

Mycroft didn’t believe in such stuff. If he wanted something, he had to do it himself. Only little children believed in fairies and magic.

His grandmother nodded understandingly. “I see. You're too reasonable and too grown up to believe this could happen. But… What do you have to lose? Isn't there anything you really want but can't make happen yourself or have your parents buy it for you?”

And Mycroft gave it some serious thinking. And eventually he nodded. “If that could happen… I would want a little brother. Someone like me, as smart and… odd… as I am.” Because he was too smart to not know that he was odd in everybody's eyes except for his family.

“Oh, that's a lovely wish! But it's just one.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I can't think of anything else. Well, of course he should be okay and not… _die_ or something then and he should like me the way I like him.” It would be really nasty if his hypothetical little brother hated him and found him strange, too…

Grandmother nodded slowly. “Your wishes will be fulfilled,” she said seriously.

Mycroft smiled at her but he didn’t believe a word. His mother had been rather old already when she had given birth to _him_ and he doubted very much that she and his father had any intention to get a second baby. And it wouldn’t fall just from the sky; Mycroft did know everything about procreation even though thinking of his parents doing such things made him feel very uncomfortable and he didn’t like girls all that much. They were silly and pink and weird and Mycroft didn’t talk to them.

And of course he would never have a little brother to be with and to look after and that was okay; he was used to being alone. And he said, “That would be great!” to his grandmother as he would never hurt her, and she smiled softly at him and gave him another chocolate.

*****

A month later his grandmother died in her sleep. Mycroft and his mother were very sad and he cried many nights, knowing he would never forget her. Her dog came to live with them, missing her too, and at night he and Redbeard slept next to Mycroft's bed, cuddled up together.

And eight months after his grandmother's death his little brother Sherlock was born and Mycroft loved him at first sight.

## Mycroft, 10 – Sherlock, 3

_“And a rumour went abroad in all that country of the beautiful sleeping Rosamond, for so was the princess called; and from time to time many kings' sons came and tried to force their way through the hedge; but it was impossible for them to do so, for the thorns held fast together like strong hands, and the young men were caught by them, and not being able to get free, there died a lamentable death.”_

“Woah! They all died? Great! But then the pirates came and saved her, right?” Two huge green-blue eyes were staring at Mycroft expectantly.

Mycroft grinned. “There are no pirates in _'Sleeping Beauty'_ , Sherlock.”

“But they could have come and cut all the thorns and get her out!”

“They could have, probably. But there were none.” Why did he even insist on it? Who cared if his little brother imagined nasty, grim pirates in this dated fairy tale? But he knew it was because everything had to be done correctly just like everything had to be in its place.

Sherlock pouted. “Stupid story…”

“Well, in the end someone succeeded to get through to her…”

“Another boring prince, right?” Sherlock asked with all the bitterness of his three years. He could read already but he insisted on Mycroft reading a story for him every evening before they went to bed. Usually Mycroft's as it was bigger. They had not slept apart for a single night since Sherlock had been old enough to sleep in a child's bed instead of a crib.

Mycroft had read all kinds of stories for him but somehow they had never made it to this particular Grimm's fairy tale before. Perhaps because Mycroft didn’t actually care about princesses, cursed or otherwise.

Now he giggled. “How did you know?”

“It's always a stupid prince!”

This was about right so Mycroft just grinned and closed the book.

“Would you come?”

“What do you mean, Lockie?”

“If I was sleeping like a dead boy in a castle with a huge hedge of thorns around it! Would you come and save me?”

“Of course I would. I would fight my way through it like the biggest, meanest pirate and get you out.”

“And kiss me to wake me up?”

“How did you know he kissed her?”

“Ah, they always kiss the silly girls!”

Mycroft found himself grinning from ear to ear. They were brothers for sure. The same brain, the same feelings, the same in everything. Only that Sherlock was still a toddler and so lean and pretty, and Mycroft was… Well, Mycroft still loved chocolates and cake way too much and he hated to see himself getting chubbier by the hour… But he loved his little brother even more than chocolates, and Sherlock, not caring about him being overweight, loved him exactly as much.

“Yes,” Mycroft said now. “I'd kiss you awake. But now you must sleep.”

Sherlock giggled and then he planted a kiss on Mycroft's lips like he did every evening. “A sleepy-sleepy kiss!”

Mycroft's arms curled around his little brother. “Yes, Lockie. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mycie.”

*****

“He's just great, Grandma. He gets smarter every day. Thank you so much for giving him to me.” Mycroft gently patted the gravestone. “I just wish he could have met you…”

He was still missing her a lot.

## Mycroft, 14 – Sherlock, 7

“No, that's not quite correct.”

“But it is! This man has a German Shepherd dog!”

“No. It's a Boxer. You must see that the hairs are too straight!”

Sherlock stared at the blond man, certainly a banker, with the dog hairs on his trouser leg who was just leaving the park where he had obviously spent his lunch break. Then he nodded. Of course he was right. Mycie was always right!

Mycroft patted his shoulder. “It's okay. It was almost right. The size was fine.”

“I'll never be as good as you.”

“That's not true. When I was seven, I wasn't nearly as good at doing deductions as you are.”

“I bet you could do them already before you could speak!”

Mycroft giggled. “Nah. Babies are not that clever.”

“But _you_ were,” Sherlock insisted. It was hard enough to imagine his big brother as a baby (even though of course he had seen plenty of pictures from this time) but he had definitely never been a _stupid_ baby. Mycroft was so smart and funny and great and Sherlock adored him.

“Can we go see a film?” he asked then.

“Sure. What do you want to watch?”

“There's a witch film, called _'She'll Find You At Night'_ and…”

“You know Mummy doesn’t allow you to watch horror films, Lockie.”

“I'm not afraid!”

“Of course you're not.”

“Are you?”

Mycroft sighed. “No! And there are no witches.” His right eyelid twitched a bit when he said that and Sherlock eyed him curiously. But then his brother shrugged. “Okay. But don't tell Mummy!”

“Great! Thank you!” Of course he wouldn’t tell Mummy. He never told her anything! And if he really had nightmares from this film, Mycroft would be there to comfort him.

“Let's see how we can get in there,” Mycroft mused, because of course this was a film for adults or at least much older children than even himself. But Mycroft would find a way. He always found a way.

*****

“He didn’t even flinch when the witch chopped someone's head off. He's so brave and he still gets smarter with every day. I love him so much, Grandma.”

## Mycroft, 18 – Sherlock, 11

“You know I'll come home as often as I can.”

Sherlock didn’t answer and his grip around his brother's chubby waist tightened a bit more. He could feel Mycroft's heartbeat against his own chest. This was the worst day of his life…

He closed his eyes when Mycroft pressed him even closer. “I will write you every day and we will talk on the phone at least three times a week.” He sounded a bit desperate now, and Sherlock was, in fact, _very_ desperate. He hadn't felt so bad since their old dog Redbeard had died a year ago.

Of course Mycroft would miss him, too, but he would start a whole new life far away now, going to Oxford. And he would try to come home often but it would happen less and less with all the people Mycroft would meet and everything he would have to do now. With his enormous brain, he learned as fast as Sherlock but in opposite to their school education that consisted of a private teacher and books and being autodidacts, university was a lot more formal.

“You'll forget me,” he mumbled darkly and Mycroft gasped under him.

They were lying on his big brother's bed. Sherlock had not spent a single night in his own one for longer than he could remember. That would be over now. Of course he could still sleep here but Mycroft would be gone so where was the point?

“I will never ever forget you, Lockie!”

Sherlock was urged to face his brother, lifting his head from his shoulder only very reluctantly. “You will,” he said in a hopeless tone. He wouldn’t want it but still it would happen.

“Even if I was going to Antarctica or live on the moon from now on, I would never forget you!”

As far as Sherlock was concerned Oxford could as well _be_ Antarctica or the moon; there was not much difference if the distance was a few hundred kilometres or a few thousands… And he hated this place! It would take Mycroft away from him so it was hateful!

“You can visit me, I've told you, and I will come home for a long holiday every year.” Mycroft obviously tried to sound convincing but there was an underlying tone of deep sadness.

Sherlock was sure he would come for the first year but then? And when he started working, certainly in London, if not New York City or somewhere else even further away, he would almost never come back anymore. Mycroft was so brilliant – Sherlock had heard their mother tell someone in a very proud tone that he was sentenced to be a very important man. And men who had very important jobs didn’t have time for anything or anybody but their sodding careers. And even if he came for the holidays - for most of the year he would be far, far away and it would _kill_ Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t have any friends. He didn’t know a single person his age and he didn’t miss it in the least. Children were stupid! They were loud and annoying and he didn’t need them. He had his books and his violin and his experiments – and he'd had Mycie.

And now he would be all alone.

*****

Mycroft didn’t go to Grandma's grave again before he left his hometown. He had done so less and less regularly over the past few years. It hadn't been a conscious decision; it had just happened.

And he had long stopped thinking about that day when she had told him he had three wishes free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have the short, angsty middle-part of the story! The last one will be more cheerful!

“Will I see you tomorrow, Myc?” The young man on the bed brushed a stray curl from his heated face.

“I don't think so. I'll have to go to London for work.” And did he still not know that he hated to be called _Myc_?

Jeff - blond, tall, pretty Jeff - snorted. “On a Saturday? Nobody in the government is working on Saturdays.”

Well, Mycroft was. He wished he would have never told him about his internship that had quickly developed into a serious training alongside with his almost finished university education to begin with. “I'm sure you won't be too bored,” he mumbled. In fact he wished he had never started fooling around with him in the first place…

“Yeah, right. Because I'm stupid and drunk all the time and fuck everything that moves.”

Mycroft winced. Not even after more than two years of having to put up with usual people he was used to such a language, used by a man who was coming from a very good family above all. He didn’t answer and continued to get dressed. All he wanted now was to shower and be on his own. And write a letter to his little brother. Perhaps this time he would even get an answer… “Bye,” he mumbled, grabbing his jacket.

“Yeah, bye. Don't bother calling me again.”

“Don't worry. It was a mistake anyway.”

Jeff snorted but Mycroft knew he was hurt. “You're not such a great lay, you know, big dick or not. You're cold like a frog.”

Mycroft was about to retort, _'And you_ kiss _like a frog'_ but he silently left Jeff's flat instead to return to the university where he had a room he lived in by himself.

He had forgotten about his casual lover already when he stepped onto the street. So much was going on in his mind. Learning was nothing to be worried about; he grasped everything as easily as he'd had as a student with his private teacher. Work was more challenging but he knew he was about to climb the latter of power quickly, too impressed were his seniors with his tremendous memory and his capability to draw conclusions and see connections nobody else saw. He needed his full concentration for his part-time job though and he spent almost every weekend in the office and it was a rather long ride there and back.

And he hadn't seen Sherlock since Christmas – for five long months… It just hadn't worked to go home and he knew Sherlock was sad and upset about it, the silence that answered his apologetic letters and Sherlock's refusal to talk to him on the phone were loud and clear. But Mycroft would make time in summer, no doubt about it!

And then he shook his head. No. He had to do it before or their relationship would be irreparably damaged and Mycroft couldn’t have that.

*****

Sherlock was sitting at the shore of the small lake behind his parents' property. He was basically just staring at the water, listening to the noises of frogs, and sometimes he looked after a flying insect. It was a very peaceful place, but Sherlock wasn't feeling peaceful. He was feeling lonely and abandoned.

Everything he had feared had come true. Mycie had basically forgotten about him. Yes, he still wrote letters and he called but he almost never came home and when he did, he was exhausted and serious and Sherlock didn’t know him anymore and he didn’t answer his letters and didn’t come to the phone when he called because he wanted to show him what he thought about being dropped like this.

And his brother had lost so much weight – certainly for all the men he was hooking up with…

That thought hurt terribly. Mummy had said he was just jealous of his brother's new life and he shouldn’t give him such a hard time but Sherlock couldn’t help it. Mycie was his and not some nameless, faceless stranger's man.

“Fuck you all,” Sherlock whispered, using this bad word for the first time in his life. He had lost his brother, his dog had died, Mummy was old and didn’t understand anything, Father just made stupid jokes and smiled like a fool and he was all alone and nobody…

“Hello, Lockie…”

He whirled around at the sound of this insecure voice and then he jumped up and hurled himself into his brother's arms.

He knew Mycroft, who was looking tired and hollow and much older than his 20 years, wouldn’t stay for long and he knew he probably had millions of better things to do and stolen this time for him but at the moment he was just absurdly happy, and he nuzzled his face against Mycroft's neck and just breathed his big brother in while he was being held in slim but strong arms.

## Mycroft, 23 – Sherlock, 16

_Dear Lockie,_

_it's just twelve days until you will come visit me for a week and I am thoroughly looking forward to it. There is so much I want to show you and I bet you will get crazy about all the museums and the Tower and all the other places London is famous for._

_Work is finally slowing down a bit. Since I have developed this computer program, dealing with reports has become a lot less of a chore. I am still busy enough though and I cannot wait for these holidays, especially as I will spend them with you, we have not seen each other for way too long again and yes, I know whose fault that is... Two more years and then you will come to London too as I hope, and until then I will have a big flat with enough space for all your books and experiments. My current place is a bit crowded but it will certainly do for a week._

_I just hope you won't be bored with your old, distinguished brother. I will certainly do my best to make this week unforgettable for you. I am including a photo of me so you will recognise me when we meet at the station :)_

_All the best and greetings to Mummy and Father,_

_Always your_

_Mycie_

*****

Sherlock read the letter with a smile on his face that only ever appeared if he was with his brother or talking to him on the phone or, like right now, reading a letter from him - for the sixth time in a row.

He had forgiven him for going away and for neglecting him for months. He had become a bit older now and he knew he had been childish and resentful. Mycroft was doing his best and he was a very busy man now, destined for a life with power and influence.

They had met a couple of months ago but he had changed again, Sherlock thought when he looked at the picture of a smiling Mycroft with very short black hair and a slightly forced smile – his brother had never liked to be photographed and he had certainly took the picture himself.

His face had become even slimmer and he looked quite a bit older than he was. But also was he very handsome, Sherlock realised with a small stitch. All the gay men in London had to be after him...

Mycroft had never mentioned a boyfriend and he was probably too busy for a serious relationship. But there had to be men for... certain things.

And Sherlock caught himself hating them and it made him feel strange and uncomfortable. His brother was a grown man and he certainly had every right to date whomever he wanted.

But _he_ didn't have to like it...

*****

“Gripping,” Sherlock said after glancing over Mycroft's books, neatly stored on a shelf, in alphabetical order.

Mycroft smiled. “Mock me, but you won't find a more complete library about our country's constitution and our past rulers.”

“I believe that at once…” Sherlock looked around. “It's so neat here!” It sounded like a curse and Mycroft had to think at his brother's messy room in their parents' house and smiled.

“Well, I'm hardly ever here. But you will mess it all up for me, won't you?”

Sherlock grinned and something happened. Something that had started to announce itself since he had met Sherlock at the train station. Or long before?

Sherlock had changed so much over the past years. The beautiful boy with the unusual features had turned into a young man with striking charisma and something inexplicable – even though Mycroft would probably be able to name it if he dared… And now he slightly tilted his head and his blue-green eyes fixated on him, and a blush that was so light that he would have almost missed it was gracing the skin over his high cheekbones.

 _'How am I supposed to live with him here alone for a week?'_ shot through Mycroft's head and all at once he felt as if he was completely out of his depth. Trapped. Doomed…

Then he shook these insane thoughts off. Sherlock was his little brother whom he had loved from the day he was born. Or even before. That was all.

“Come, let me help you unpack and then we'll have tea, hm?” he suggested, and his voice trembled only very slightly.

And Sherlock just nodded, his eyes never leaving Mycroft's face, and then they went to the guest room, which was also Mycroft's home office (because Sherlock would definitely _not_ be sleeping in his bed anymore) and Mycroft forced himself to behave as if nothing had happened. Nothing so devastating and shameful as discovering that he desired his baby brother.

*****

On the third day they had pasta for dinner that they had cooked together, side by side, and Sherlock had deliberately messed up Mycroft's neat (and usually unused) kitchen. They talked about everything from the last mishap of Uncle Rudy in a skirt to Mycroft's job, and Sherlock felt a weird kind of confusion spreading in his stomach or soul or wherever feelings were being developed. It wasn't a totally new feeling of course; it had been there from day one, albeit not in the same measures.

There was something increasingly strange lingering between them, and every time Mycroft looked away with a strange expression when Sherlock smiled at him and each time he accidentally touched his brother just to make him shy away Sherlock felt it stronger. Something had changed. Something elementary, and it had grown over the past days, which they had spent with discovering London together (as Mycroft had never really taken the time to do it properly). The sun had been shining and they had had a lot of fun and still… As soon as they had been alone here, the mood had changed very weirdly.

Sherlock had sometimes snuggled against his brother when they had watched telly, and Mycroft had pressed him close for a moment before getting up to do something and sitting down a bit further away afterwards.

He now caught himself looking at his brother walking away from him, his gaze lingering on him when he moved with elegance and grace. Nothing was left of the insecure, chubby boy he once had been. He was oozing power and sophistication – and a nervousness that didn’t fit at all and it didn’t need a genius to figure out it could only be because of him. And then Sherlock realised he had looked at his brother's arse when he had left the room and now his eyes were drawn to his crotch when he came back, and there was no question anymore what this was about. He desired his big brother, and Mycroft desired him, and this forbidden feeling had creeped up on them for years and now it had caught them both. And Sherlock felt tingly and excited – and his brother was afraid of it as hell.

Mycroft handed him a glass – Coca Cola – and sat down next to him on the couch, wincing when their thighs briefly made contact. “It's great to have you here, Lockie,” he said, and his voice sounded a bit shaken, and then Sherlock grabbed his neck and kissed him on the lips, and for a sweet moment, Mycroft froze and let it happen and there was even a hint of kissing him back, and then he pulled away as if he'd been poured with hot water.

“No! That's… We can't do that!”

Sherlock hadn't had any time to think about it beforehand but he shook his head. “Of course we can. We just can't tell anyone about it.”

“Lockie, this is wrong. We're brothers!”

“Yep, I know. And?”

“And?! It's forbidden and…”

“…everything good is forbidden! Smoking, drinking in my case… Doesn’t mean we can't do it.”

Mycroft was on his feet now and he looked absolutely desperate. “It's my fault,” he stammered. “My wish…”

“You're not making any sense, brother.”

Mycroft looked around as if he searched for something. “Take it back, please! I didn’t want that!”

With whom was he talking?! “Shall I call someone? Have you gone mad?”

And then Mycroft sagged onto the floor. “Yes. I guess I have. You must go back home, Lockie. I'm so sorry. I can't have you here with… these disgusting feelings between us…”

Sherlock paled and jumped up. “You arsehole! What have they done to you! You were my Mycie and now you're a, a… Fuck you!” And with this he stormed out of the room and ran into the guest room to gather his belongings. Five minutes later he left Mycroft's flat, as he didn’t want him here anymore, stopping a cab that would bring him to the station. He did his best but he couldn’t help crying like a little child all his way there and all his way home in the last train of the day. Mycroft had not said a word and just stared at him when he had left, and Sherlock didn’t want to see him or talk to him ever again and he wondered if people could indeed die of a broken heart.

*****

And over the next few months, Sherlock didn’t recover from his brother's rejection; in fact he drifted away on a dark cloud of depression and desperation, and everything was black, and he felt like the prince in the castle surrounded by thorns, and nobody would come to save him.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been a long, hideous day for Mycroft Holmes, the twenty-four year-old secret weapon of the British Government.

For twelve hours non-stop he had been sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen, connecting the dots nobody else could see. News from all over the world had been coming in without a break, and it was his brain's job to make sense of it, to draw conclusions, to identify threats, to memorise seemingly insignificant but possibly important facts for later use. His boss, the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, often said that he was a human computer, sounding proud – as if Mycroft was his – robotic – creature in some way, as if he was the one to thank for the phenomenon that was Mycroft Holmes.

Within only two years, Mycroft had become such an integral part of the processes behind closed doors that he was expected to be working around the clock, never getting tired, never needing rest, never stopping to do something as banal as eating or showering.

Which couldn’t work, of course. He was getting more and more exhausted.

And not only because of work.

He hadn't talked to Sherlock since he had left, or better fled from his flat that evening and it was breaking his heart. He had tried to contact him of course but Sherlock had refused to write or come to the phone, and this time he would probably not change his mind again. And Mycroft hadn't dared return home to face him, afraid their parents would find out… And apart from that - he just didn’t see a way to win him back.

Only if…

But he couldn't! He couldn't sentence his brother to such a life and he couldn't do it to himself. He was at the beginning of his career and it was about to really take off, he knew that.

He wondered what the Prime Minister would think of his immoral feelings towards his brother, and if he knew that Mycroft blamed them on three wishes, granted by his grandmother, the self-proclaimed witch… But even if this was really true, which it couldn't be, could it? Even if so, it would only explain Sherlock's feelings… not his own. And they hadn't changed; instead they had become stronger and stronger. He dreamt of him and woke up with his name on his lips. He had done… things thinking of him, he just couldn't help it, usually when he had woken up or after he had fallen into his bed after a day full of chores, too wound up to immediately fall asleep.

And he was worried about Sherlock, horribly worried. His little brother had started to experiment with drugs, their mother had told Mycroft. He drank hard booze and he smoked marihuana. He didn’t learn, he didn’t care for experiments. He was suffering as much as Mycroft was and Mycroft had no idea what to do against it.

With his legs feeling heavy even though he has been sitting all day, he got up to stop working for today. His brain had started getting numb from exhaustion and worry and there was no use to beat it to work anymore.

And he winced when his phone signalised a call, and he immediately knew there were no good news waiting for him, and in fact they were so bad that he was on his way home to his parents an hour later with his heart in an iron grip.

*****

“I haven’t been here for a while… Years, actually. And now… I don't know what I'm doing here. It's not as if you were here. You can't help me. But who else should?”

Mycroft was stepping from one foot to the other, having no idea why he had come here, to a graveyard, speaking with his grandmother who had been dead for eighteen bloody years. But he had been at the hospital for all night and nothing had changed. Sherlock had not woken up from his coma and he just couldn’t stare into his marble face anymore and beg for forgiveness Sherlock couldn’t give him – and wouldn't give him if he woke up…

His seventeen-year-old brother had taken an overdose of cocaine and meth. It was a miracle he was not dead. Yet…

He had looked so fragile and pale in his bed and his beauty had been otherworldly; a pale, motionless puppet, attached to machines that were keeping him alive, and he looked as if he had almost crossed the line between life and death.

And now Mycroft had come to his grandmother's grave to find what – an answer? Would he ask her to take back this third wish he had never really believed in even when he had been six years old? And even if that happened – he would still love and desire his brother in a way that was almost killing him…

But at least Sherlock would recover and forget this…

“I don't know what to do. Don't you remember my second wish! He shouldn’t _die_! And what should I do about the third one! Give me a sign!” His voice was shrill and he felt as if he was seriously losing his mind. Here he was, the brilliant protégé of the Prime Minister, asking his long gone grandmother to talk to him.

“They don't, son, you know?”

Mycroft whirled around and faced a man he had never seen in his life. He was as tall as he was, which was very tall, and he looked strange to say the least. His straight grey hair was standing up from his head as if he had suffered an electric shock. His eyes were huge and opened wide, a mixture of blue and green almost like Sherlock's but a lot more intimidating in their intensity. He had a small mouth with oddly shaped lips and exposed a small gap between his front teeth when he smiled at Mycroft now in a disturbing way. This man was not like any other man Mycroft had met, and he was very smart; his entire appearance oozed charisma and eccentricity.

“Are you… related to me?” Mycroft stammered, because this man could have very well been a Holmes… But then… he had sounded a bit like an American.

“I have no idea, son, never seen you before. Was about to visit my wife when I spotted you.” The man took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Mycroft, who just silently shook his head. The older man lit one and pulled at it greedily.

“So your wife… is dead.” As soon as he had said it, Mycroft felt like an idiot. Of course she was dead! Her husband was visiting her on a bloody graveyard!

“Well observed,” the man said with a hint of mockery. “She's over there.” He pointed vaguely to the right side. “For thirty years.”

“Wow… My grandmother died eighteen years ago when I was a child.”

“Long time for asking her to talk to you.”

Mycroft flushed. “I… It's silly, I know. But… I didn’t know who else to turn to. It's about my little brother. He's fighting for his life in a hospital and even if he wakes up, he'll still hate me. God, he wanted to _die_ because of me!” The tears started streaming over his face for the first time in… decades? Since his grandmother had died? And why was he telling this a man he had never seen before?

“Come, son, sit down over there.”

Mycroft was guided to a not exactly clean bench but he let himself drop onto it without bothering about the designer suit he was still wearing, crumpled from the train ride and the night next to Sherlock's bed. He supposed he didn’t smell very good but he couldn’t have cared less about it.

The man sat down next to him and somehow Mycroft wasn’t ashamed of crying right beside this weird and intimidating stranger. He appeared like a man who had seen and experienced it all and he seemed to be completely unembarrassed by Mycroft's tears. “Do you have a name?” he asked when Mycroft had finally calmed down a bit and used his handkerchief to clean himself up.

“Oh, sorry, yes, I'm Mycroft Ho…”

“First name's fine. I'm Chris.”

“Nice to meet you, Chris. You probably can't say the same about me…”

“Ah, don't fret your handsome head, son. Mycroft… What a name is this?”

Mycroft shrugged. He was used to this question. “The name of my grand-grandfather,” he said, as if that explained anything.

“Good. That's good. Family's good, you know. It's all we have in the end.”

Mycroft swallowed. That was true. But he was about to lose the most important member of his wide family… He could feel the tears coming back and he fought them back with all he had. Crying wouldn’t change anything. He needed a solution, not senseless sentiment. “Yes,” he mumbled. “That's why I'm here…”

“Yeah. Thought your grandma would come out of her grave and tell you, what, how to wake up your brother from a coma?”

“No… That's not the only problem…”

“I figured.” The man took another pull on his cigarette and blew out the smoke in perfect circles he didn’t even seem to notice. “A delicate matter, huh?”

Mycroft blushed. But he dismissed the thought that had immediately crossed his mind. This man couldn’t know anything about the background even though Mycroft had said Sherlock had wanted to die because of him, and he knew only he could be the reason for it. A truly devastating conclusion. “We… We had an argument and then he didn’t want to talk to me anymore. He started taking drugs but I thought he only chose rather harmless ones.”

“Drugs are never harmless.”

“No, that's true. But I didn’t expect this…” Mycroft shook his head in desperation. It had been completely stupid to come here in the first place. Even if his grandmother had really been a witch, and he didn’t believe in witches, and Sherlock's birth had been the result of his first wish and his little brother had fallen in love with Mycroft because Mycroft had fallen in love with _him_ – there was nothing to be done about it from here because the witch was _dead_ …

Chris was scrutinising him with these disturbing eyes. “I'm bad at giving advice and stuff and I know nothing about you and your brother. But let me tell you a story. I'm good at telling stories.”

“Okay.” He had nothing else to do after all. His mother would call him on his mobile phone as soon as Sherlock woke up. Or… He didn’t even want to finish this thought…

“It's a true story. It happened exactly like this!” Chris pointed out and Mycroft thought that in all probability nothing was true about it then…

But he would listen and he didn’t doubt this man was a born storyteller…

“I can see you don't believe me. But do it! It did happen long ago, when I was a little younger than you. I was, back then. Young. Young people never believe that.”

Mycroft nodded and thought that he might have been wrong about this man's abilities to tell a good tale…

“Anyway! Don't interrupt me anymore!”

Mycroft had not done it in the first place but he wisely chose to just nod again.

“Good. I was born in New York City and went to college. A good one. Boys from all over the country came there to study. Good times, these. Silly teachers sometimes but what can you do? And there was a boy named Tony Di Marco. He was bright and sweet and everybody loved him, lots of Italian charm. He had many friends and he was… gay…,” Mycroft winced, “but he never bonded with anyone like this. Until Johnny O'Loughlin came to share his room. He came from a different state, had a different accent. But they were so alike! The same hobbies, the same interests and humour. They even resembled each other with their black hair and dark eyes, typical for both Italians and a certain sort of Irish people. And Johnny was even also gay.”

Mycroft froze. This story was taking a certain direction, wasn't it?

Chris eyed him closely and flipped the cigarette end onto the path. “They fell in love. Very quickly. Back then it wasn't exactly forbidden for two men to be a couple but… well, it was not really accepted either. For me it was fine but…”

“Not that much different today…” Mycroft mumbled and then apologised for the interruption, but Chris waved it away.

“I guess so. All this talk about liberality and stuff and still people think the same shit in their narrow-minded brains. Anyway, back then it was a scandal. Or it would have been if they had done it in the open. They didn’t. They did everything two healthy gay boys do. Whatever this exactly is but it must have been good, judging from their faces and the way they were walking every morning.”

Mycroft blushed at that but didn’t say anything.

“What do you think happened?” Chris asked him, leaning back on the bench.

“Someone betrayed them?” There was more to this and Mycroft was rather certain what it was but it just couldn’t be!

“Nah. They found out they were brothers.”

He had seen something like this coming but still the casual way in which Chris had said it was like a blow to the gut. “Oh God…”

“Non-identical twins to be precise. They found out they'd been born on the same day. Classic story. One only had a biological mother he'd been living with, the other one only a father, no other relatives, no nice grandma or prude old aunt. And they had been together for a few weeks until they talked about their birthdays… Guess they had better things to do and to talk about, huh?”

Mycroft's head was spinning. He had no idea what he had said to give his secret away but did that really matter now? “What happened then?” He was rather sure he didn’t want to hear it but Chris would tell him anyway he was sure.

“They committed suicide. Jumped in front of a train. Hand in hand.”

“Fucking hell!” Mycroft usually didn’t use such a language but it seemed appropriate right now… Again this dry tone with this horrible piece of information!

Chris didn’t seem to mind. “Never said it was a nice story, son. So. Whatever your problem with your brother is… Be smarter.”

Mycroft swallowed. “I've already told him it can't be…”

“No! You didn’t understand the moral of this story!”

“But…”

“Make it better than them! Stick together, and yeah, I know that's a pun… Don't let anyone destroy your lives because you think it's immoral and whatever. These boys, son, they were the perfect match! They would have had a great life together! Nobody knew they were brothers! They could have started a life together if they had played their cards well. No Christmas with each other's mom and dad, obviously…”

“My brother and I did grow up together… He's much younger than me…” And they had plenty of relatives…

“Well then don't tell anyone about it! You don't seem to be someone who's dumb or slow! Find a way. Do what you feel is right for you two! When I married my wife, everybody told her she could do better! Her folks hated me! So what? We were happy until the day she was killed by a bus when she crossed the street. I know your situation is very different but hear me, son – love wins. Always. But only if you have the courage to let it win.”

“How could you know about my situation?” Mycroft asked, feeling completely numb.

“I saw it. Heard it. I'm a magician. Choose one. I'm just a stranger who's bad at giving advice. But this one, son, you can believe.” He got up. “I need to go now. And you go back to your brother so you're there when he wakes up, and don't be a coward. You've got to do what your heart tells you! You think too much!” And with this he stalked away on his long legs, and waved a hand without turning around when Mycroft yelled a 'thank you' after him.

Mycroft watched him leave with a racing heart, and before the tall old man turned around the corner, his back seemed to… flicker? and Mycroft briefly wondered if this conversation had really happened or if this man had, in fact, been the sign he had begged for or a hallucination or an angel, and then he got up to return to the hospital and deep inside he knew Sherlock would wake up and be physically fine. And he wanted to be there. He needed to be there!

*****

“Oh you silly, silly boy! Never do that again, you hear me?”

Mycroft saw Sherlock, looking small and shallow in all the white linen, swallow and wince under their mother's shrill voice. Father was standing next to her, shaking his head with a worried face. He never said much but with their mother, he didn’t have to.

“No, Mummy,” Sherlock mumbled and winced again when Mrs Holmes more or less threw herself over him.

Mycroft decided to step in. “Now, now, Mummy, let him live. Why don't you go talk to the doctor and give him some time to get his senses back?” he suggested, and Father gave him a grateful smile and guided his sobbing wife out of the hospital room.

Sherlock didn’t look up when Mycroft sat down on the chair next to the bed. “I'm so sorry, Lockie,” Mycroft broke the silence after half a minute.

Now Sherlock did look at him; he clearly had expected something else. “Why? Because you kicked me out of your flat? Or because you're a coward?”

It was Mycroft's turn to wince but he knew he deserved this. And he didn’t have much time until their parents would come back. “For everything. But… I'm not sorry that I love you.”

Sherlock made a strange noise deep in his throat before sagging even deeper into the pillows. “You mean as a brother,” he murmured.

“No, Lockie. Of course I'll always do that anyway but… that wasn't what I meant. Listen… There is something I've never told you about our grandmother.”

Sherlock's suspicious eyes narrowed. “What about her?”

“She… Right before she died, she told me… she was a witch…”

“What? Oh. She was demented…”

“No, Lockie, she was very clear. And she told me I had three wishes free…”

Sherlock rolled his reddened eyes. “And you wished for a well-paid government job and being the Queen's best friend and having a cute arse when you grow up?”

Mycroft thought that they had a long way ahead of them… He shook his head. “In fact I wished for a little brother…”

“Oh…” Now he had Sherlock's attention.

“Mummy was, you know, much older than most women when she gave birth to me and… I don't think they had planned to have another child.” A shadow fell over Sherlock's face and Mycroft cursed himself. He hurried to go on. “Of course they were over the moon when you were born, so beautiful and so quick at learning everything. You could grab and crawl and talk earlier than me.”

Now a small smile was tugging at the corners of his brother's beautiful mouth. “Yeah, she said.”

“They wanted you and they will always want you. But _I_ wanted you the most.”

Sherlock swallowed. “You said you had three wishes…”

“Yes. The second one was that nothing should happen to you. Well…” He looked pointedly around in the hospital room and Sherlock blushed a bit. _'He's still alive after all…'_ , Mycroft thought. “And the third wish…” Mycroft took a deep breath. “The third wish was that you should like me the way I like you…”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “But… Oh…”

“Yes. I thought it was because of this wish that you… felt for me in a way a brother shouldn’t. Because when you arrived in London that day… I could feel that something had changed. And the days we spent together… You felt it too.”

“Yes. It happened even before though. I was jealous of the boys you might meet in London…”

“I'm sure it was in me before as well. But I didn’t think about it. I've loved you forever, even before you were born so it took me probably longer to understand that my feelings were different now…”

Sherlock nodded. “I wanted to die, that day when I left your flat.”

Mycroft winced but this shouldn’t have come as a surprise after all. “I'm so sorry, little brother…”

“I get it now. You felt guilty because you thought it's your fault that I love you like this. Well, it is, but only because you are you. Nobody is like you. Anyway… I'll try and keep away from the drugs…”

“I should hope so! I don't want to see you like this again!”

“…and it'll kill Mummy, I know. And I'll better keep away from you, too.”

Mycroft closed his eyes but then he could see Chris' face in front of his eyes and he didn’t look amused… Sherlock had given him a way out and he could take it and perhaps it would work and Sherlock would get over him and… And Mycroft absolutely didn’t want that and probably that strange man from the graveyard would hunt him down if he even tried anyway… “No, Lockie. You must never keep away from me! Because I want you.”

Sherlock shook his head with an expression of horror. “Don't say that because I'm sick now and…”

And he stopped talking when Mycroft bent over to brush a kiss onto his lips. It was just a tiny peck but Mycroft also took Sherlock's cold, long-fingered hand and pressed it gently.

When Mycroft pulled back, they stared at each other, and Mycroft let his little brother see all the love he was feeling for him and then thick tears started to roll down Sherlock's cheeks, but they were tears of joy, and Mycroft kissed them away and then they kissed for real, with Sherlock's shaky hand on the back of his head, and nothing could feel sweeter than this salty kiss full of promises and affection.

It was Sherlock who broke it in the end. “They will come back soon.”

“Oh, yes. And we must pretend nothing happened.”

“I know, Mycie. Will you go back to London today?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I took a week off. I might have to do some work from here but never for long.” He stroked Sherlock's hand. “We will wait, Lockie, okay? With the… real stuff. And when you're eighteen, you'll move in with me if you still want to, and we can do it all.” He didn’t suggest it to have a way out but to give Sherlock one if he needed it. And somehow he knew as much as he would enjoy making love to Sherlock as soon as possible, he would feel better about it if they waited until he was an adult by law even though they would still break it of course but to hell with that.

Sherlock's eyes were sparkling now but then he frowned. “But what if you find someone else until then?”

Mycroft smiled. “Never going to happen. There's nobody in this world like you and I will wait. And if you change your mind…”

“Never going to happen!”

Mycroft felt his eyes getting wet now, too. “If it does, it's okay, little brother. Then it wasn't meant to be. But promise me one thing…”

“Whatever you want!”

“No more drugs! Smoke if you must and have a beer once in a while but…”

“No more drugs. Promised.”

“I love you, Lockie. Forever.”

He kissed him again; he just couldn’t let it be, and when he reluctantly pulled back as it was really getting dangerous, he stroked over Sherlock's pale but glowing face and the smile on his brother's lips made his heart do strange things.

“Mycie…”

“Yes, Lockie?”

“Do you remember… when you were reading 'Sleeping Beauty' for me…”

Mycroft smiled. “And you requested pirates. Of course I remember.”

“I asked you if you would come and save me and kiss me awake.”

Mycroft blinked rapidly. “You did.”

“And now you've come and did it all…”

And a few moments later their parents came back while Sherlock was clinging to his neck, in tears once more, and so was Mycroft, but that was fine of course because they had always been that close before Mycroft had left his home, albeit not quite that troubled, and Mr and Mrs Holmes were happy to see them united again on this day that had been the darkest one of their lives.

## Mycroft, 25 – Sherlock, 18

“Will you boys have a good time?” Violet Holmes beamed at her boys and Sherlock looked down on his feet and tried not to grin, and he hoped Mycroft would manage to not blush. But when he glanced at his brother, he only saw a calm, confident smile. His brother, the super important man behind the Prime Minister, did not blush anymore…

“We certainly will,” Mycroft said suavely. “Dinner in a fancy restaurant and then a film. Just like Sherlock requested for his special birthday.”

Indeed it would be a special one. A _very_ special one… Way too special to spend it like this…

“Have fun, boys,” their father said and patted Sherlock's shoulder. “Eighteen, son! Oh, to be that young again…”

“Can you even remember it?” his wife teased him, and he chuckled.

“Insolent girl!”

She giggled and Sherlock briefly wondered how _they_ would spend their evening… And he suppressed a shudder.

“Do nothing I wouldn't do, sons,” Father Holmes said, and this time Sherlock couldn’t hide his grin but of course their parents had no idea whatsoever how their sons would spend the evening of Sherlock's birthday. No restaurant, no cinema – they would head straight to the hotel room his brother had booked for the night even though they couldn’t stay until the morning of course. But it wasn’t that kind of _établissement_ where couples just stayed for a few hours…

“Come, Lockie,” Mycroft said, his hand brushing over Sherlock's arm delightfully. “We have a reservation and we have still to discuss which film you want to see! Don't wait up for us,” he added for their parents.

“Don't worry. We'll go to bed soon…” The old man winked at his wife, who blushed furiously.

“Siger Holmes!” she chided, but she didn’t sound that upset.

Their parents were in a splendid mood for sure, but that was nothing compared to _Sherlock's_ mood…

It had been so hard to wait for the goodies for so many months! It wasn't as if they hadn't done anything with each other of course… Neither of them would have survived that in all probability. And it would have killed Sherlock mainly because he would have had to fear that Mycroft would find someone else…

They hadn't met that many times of course. Mycroft's job didn’t allow him to come home that often and Sherlock couldn’t visit him all the time as it wouldn’t do to cause suspicion. But when Mycroft had been there for Christmas and a week in summer, they had started to, carefully and cautiously, explore one another.

Mostly they had just kissed, and kissing Mycie had become Sherlock's favourite thing to do very quickly… When their parents had gone out on Christmas Day, they had kissed and kissed for a full hour, both achingly hard in their pants, and in the end Mycroft had pulled Sherlock onto him and Sherlock had come into his underwear, just from the sudden friction.

And they had touched each other at other occasions, masturbated each other and Mycroft had given head to him a few times, which had catapulted Sherlock's arousal into the stratosphere very quickly, but Mycroft had not wanted him to return the favour. Sherlock had pouted a bit of course but in the end Mycroft's concern had been rather sweet and Sherlock had not exactly missed getting off after all even though he would have loved to spoil Mycroft in the same way.

Well, things were different now! He was officially an adult now and tonight they would do it all! And in a few months Sherlock would move in with Mycroft and heaven was waiting for them… Tonight would be an appetizer for so much more to come.

“Excited, are we?” Mycroft asked him quietly when they were walking away from the house, not quite close enough to touch each other but so aware of the other one's presence.

“You're too smart to state the obvious, brother mine.”

Mycroft chuckled.

*****

“Would you like me to order something for dinner?” Mycroft asked Sherlock when they had entered their luxurious hotel room. It cost him a small fortune for just a few hours but Mycroft didn’t care at all. It was the best money he had ever spent apart from presents for his brother over the past eighteen years.

The answer was not unexpected. “No way. We had lots of cake just two hours ago and we can eat again tomorrow!”

Mycroft smiled. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Because you know me?” Sherlock winked and without any further hesitation, he began shedding his clothes rapidly, not caring where they dropped.

“Oh, that's what you want, all right. And I thought we would sit down and debate about life and the latest developments in cloning and…” He giggled when Sherlock rudely shut him up with a kiss and started tearing at _his_ clothes. “So impatient, little brother?” he asked tenderly when Sherlock was busy with opening his trousers after almost ruining his shirt in the process of decidedly impatiently undressing him.

“I was _so_ patient for _so_ long!” Sherlock growled and Mycroft grinned and was about to say something witty and funny when Sherlock licked a hot, wet stripe over the prominent bulge in Mycroft's underpants, making him moan and get shaky on his legs.

He didn’t have to bother for long about that as Sherlock pushed him backwards to the bed, and he let himself drop onto it and be manhandled into a position in the middle of it, still wearing his black socks but nothing else. And then his cock disappeared between these lips that had been the protagonists of so many wet dreams, and he closed his eyes in sheer bliss.

Sherlock must have practiced this, in all probability with some innocent vegetables, because his technique was close to perfect for the very first time. There were no teeth worrying his tender flesh, just the pressure of full lips and a devilish tongue that did delightfully naughty things with his foreskin and his throbbing glands.

He wondered if he shouldn’t feel guiltier about this than… not at all. But who cared? If his grandmother had really been what she had believed to be, namely a white, good witch, her powers must have come from God, didn’t they? And if was really the result of her spell, she must be looking at them in delight now – a picture Mycroft didn’t really find very appealing – in any way God wouldn’t mind it then, either, because in the end he had caused all this.

Only that Mycroft didn’t really believe in God and he knew he would never know if really Sherlock's existence and feelings for him were the result of white magic. And if there wasn't a god, and no magic – why should he care about this being wrong? It wasn’t wrong for him, and it wasn’t wrong for Sherlock and that was all that mattered in the end. In fact Sherlock had almost died when he had stupidly rejected him and now his eyes were glowing with lust and affection, so this could not be wrong as it made his brother as happy as it made him.

It was forbidden by law and could never come out; both of them were well aware of it. But Mycroft refused to have this extraordinary experience and everything that was about to happen be spoilt by useless, pointless feelings of guilt and fear and somewhere in the back of his mind he saw an old man nodding appreciatively at this thought.

And so he was stroking Sherlock's silky curls while his brother was doing the most pleasant things to him with his wonderful mouth, and he only interrupted him and spent all over Sherlock's chest instead of into said mouth because he didn’t want to overwhelm him at his first time of giving oral pleasures to him (as cucumbers probably didn’t provide come shots), and he returned the favour thoroughly as soon as he had his breath back, going all the way because he could and loved to have his brother come apart down his throat and drink his bitter-sweet essence.

*****

“Are you all right?” Mycroft gave his brother a concerned look.

Sherlock nodded. “Go on.”

“How does it feel?”

“Burns a bit. You're big after all! And you're stretching me rather widely…”

“Shall I…”

“No! Go on!”

Mycroft would have rather waited with this particular treat – real anal intercourse – a little longer but Sherlock wouldn’t have it. He was eighteen now and he wanted to celebrate thoroughly and Mycroft hadn't protested too much… So after a break of half an hour after their mutual sucking session, he had prepared Sherlock for taking him for the very first time.

It certainly burnt and stung for Sherlock, him half-way settled in him, but for Mycroft it felt like being buried in sticky hot tightness and nothing had ever felt so good. It wasn’t _his_ first time of course but in some way it still was. It was the first time it meant something.

Sherlock had his arms around his neck and now his legs were slung around Mycroft's midst, urging him onwards. “Come on, my nasty pirate, enter the ship.”

Mycroft giggled against his face and Sherlock snorted. “Yes, my prince. The big bad pirate has come to take your virginity.”

“I'd say you already have,” Sherlock rumbled in his deep voice. “And now show me how big and bad you are.”

And Mycroft did. He fucked his brother in a very slow rhythm until he could feel the impossible tight muscle giving more way, and then he dared thrust harder and deeper, and Sherlock's moans were matching his.

Time seemed to stand still and despite being in a large hotel with hundreds of people it felt as if they were all alone with each other. Mycroft had shut out all other noises but he was hyper-aware of Sherlock's hot breath against his neck, his brother's shivers and shudders, his feet sliding over the back of his thighs, his arms firmly around his back.

They had foregone using a condom. Mycroft knew he was perfectly healthy and Sherlock has been checked through thoroughly in the hospital a year ago, and there hadn't been a repeat of indulging in hard drugs ever since. Sherlock had not needed them anymore.

So when he reached his climax, he spent deep inside his brother's body, and while he was still shuddering through his orgasm, Sherlock released himself between their bodies, and somehow it felt like sealing their bond. This wasn’t a mood or a phase, this was destiny, as much as the rational part in Mycroft usually despised such silliness. In this moment he truly believed that Sherlock was the product of his wish to never be alone again, to have a brother who was like him and loved him in exactly the way he loved him. Sherlock and this unique relationship was the result of love – his grandmother's love for him and Mycroft's instant love for his little brother.

His mouth searched Sherlock's when the twitching and panting had abated, and they kissed deeply, Mycroft half resting on one knee, half lying on his brother.

“How did you like that, my sweet prince?” he asked him, smirking, when they had parted for air.

“The prince is very satisfied. But the pirate has a problem now.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah. He will never get rid of the prince again.”

“That's not a problem, little brother. It's a privilege.”

And they kissed again. And again. And again until it was time to freshen up and go home for the beautiful prince and the brave pirate, who knew he would be eternally grateful that his third wish had come true.

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how many of you know Christopher Walken's work but trust me when I say this academy-award winning actor is absolutely fantastic. His appearance here has some hint at his films "The Dead Zone" and "The Prophecy" as long with his uniqueness. I'm so glad he finally fitted into a story as I had dreamt of including him for ages.
> 
> Thanks for all the love and support!
> 
> I will take a break from writing now as I'm about to lose one of my pet birds and I'm feeling like anything but writing now. All the best to you for now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Third Wish (Cover Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18689353) by [yukoyaoista](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukoyaoista/pseuds/yukoyaoista)




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